


Malachi Cera Drabbles

by SombraLuna



Series: Marvel Stuff [3]
Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Treme X-Men
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cults, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Marvel 616 References, Marvel Universe, Minor Character Death, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Resurrection, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, X-Men: Schism, twitter but not good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-01-26 15:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SombraLuna/pseuds/SombraLuna
Summary: This is where I post all my Malachi stuff
Relationships: Hercules (Marvel)/Logan (X-Men), Jean Grey/Scott Summers, Logan/Kurt Wagner, Malachi Cera & Quentin Quire, Quentin Quire/Evan Sabahnur
Series: Marvel Stuff [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1221941
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. contamination

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Twitter But not good](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268809) by [SombraLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SombraLuna/pseuds/SombraLuna). 

The veins pulse and ooze, churning out blackened blood. Malachi grits his teeth as Quentin pours alcohol onto his slit and mangled wrist. He spits out bile just as Quentin finishes stitching, and  
notes that his vomit is black too.  
“Don’t die yet,” Quentin grunts.  
Malachi scoffs. “Sure. I’ll do that, right after you help me up.”  
The boys slowly stand, Malachi gripping tightly onto Quentin as his head spins. 40 miles of decimated land surrounding the pair. The bomb exploded, trapping Malachi underneath the rubble of Quentin’s house. Luckily, neither he nor Quentin are human. Not anymore, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes its easier to put on a mask and pretend you aren't in your body for a while. The mask is more comfortable than your own skin, anyways.

"It's cold," the boy next to Malachi muses. 

He nods and pulls put a flask. It's full of root beer, but his students don't need to know that. They know with his healing factor he can't get drunk, so most assume he just drinks alcohol to numb sore muscles.

A boy with a pink mohawk groans. "Malachi, as much as I enjoy your lone wolf nonverbalism, I can't read your mind. Mind sharing with the class why you have us out here?"

Malachi raises an eyebrow. "Quentin, if you'd bother to show up to class once a week, maybe you'd know." He doesn't move when Roxy snorts, although he flushes slightly. 

"We're here to learn about survival, dumbass," Nate growls. 

Malachi tucks his flask back into his pocket. "Actually, since Logan is currently off-planet, I agreed to take over his forest survival elective for a week." He nods towards Nathaniel. "I am gonna tell you what you can eat, so Nate's sorta right."

Quentin grimaces, most likely due to his time with Krakoa. "I already know this though!"

"Shit. Forgot about that." Malachi scratches one of his horns thoughtfully. "How the hell did they even put you in this class anyways?"

He shrugs. 

Malachi slings his backpack over his shoulder with a grunt. "Great. Be sure to tell me when we get back to the dorm, then." 


	3. The Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened the night Malachi was summoned to find an angel.

He read the tweet over and over again with shaking hands. _An angel_. He typed out a response and sent it, feeling the phantom ache of his old wings come back. _An angel_. His scars tingled, as did the broken bits of bone and muscles intended for flight. He closed his eyes, and in a flash, he was there.

Well, sort of. He was falling off of a roof, aiming straight towards a glowing figure. Malachi reached out to the nearest fire escape rung and held on, his fall abruptly stopped. He dropped down onto the ground, in front of the glowing figure.

"Holy shit."

The glowing figure was a kid in golden robes, showing a wingspan of easily fifteen feet. Malachi ached for his wings, though his were not like the "angel's." 

"Malachi Cera," they said. 

Malachi lifted his hand in a half-hearted salute. "Sup." 


	4. The Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> australia is on fire. China is putting muslims in concentration camps. the longer i wait for a new hawkeye run the closer i get to death

He wrote a letter every week, like people used to. He had a feeling, somewhere in the back of his head, that he had once written letters before. He did not dwell upon it. He did not dwell upon much, these days. Evan and he did not speak anymore, choosing to go their separate ways, though he hoped the ache was mutual. Rachel and Jubilee seemed to avoid him, though he knew his presence was off-putting for any sort of telepathic. Except Quentin, that is.

So he continued writing letters. Word after word, page after page. They piled up in his room, so he bought boxes; and when those boxes were full he bought more. He wrote until his hand and arm ached and he wrote even more, until there was no more ink to be found and no more paper to scribble on. He wrote to Peter, to Wade, to Logan, to Quentin, to Matt. He tried to write to Clint, but words weren't enough to apologize. He wrote to the Angel, though. He wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. 

Then, there was nothing else to write. His words were empty on paper, the ink that came from his body ran dry, the well of rage and sorrow stopped flowing, and his hand stopped writing. 

So, he left. He put on his hat and coat and left the Xavier Institute with a typed notice that he was on a mission and he ran. He ran to the wilderness that was the Canadian border, where a log cabin lay. 

He strode onto the property, on the untouched snow, tainting the land with life. An old ax sat at the base of a tree, the handle rotted into little more than a stick. A small lump of snow marked the pile of logs that had once been chopped, that now met the same fate as the ax handle. As he approached the house, off to the side, a small grave lay. Malachi did not read it, for he knew that it bore Logan's name. 

The porch creaked under his weight, a sound that fell upon deaf ears. He grasped the rusty handle, but let go after realizing it would not budge. His boots trod upon the door a second after, and he entered the cabin. 

It was small and dust covered. A rocking chair sat by a fireplace that no longer burned, and the door to the bedroom was shut. Letters and pictures lay upon the mantle, a memorial to the life of a dead man now resurrected. His fingers itched to touch the photograph of those who lay in graves similar to Logan's, but he did not. A tomb should never be disturbed. 

Malachi reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. He set it upon the mantle, next to the others, and turned to leave. He had no desire to read the letters on the mantle, but had a strange feeling he had done this before. He did not dwell upon it. 

"Goodnight, Logan." 

His voice was met by silence. The body that once lay in the grave did not stir, the trees did not sigh, and the house did not creak. He picked up the door he had knocked down, and re-attached it to its hinges. He did not look back at the house or the grave. Not at his sins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> insta and twitter: @sombralunaart  
tumblr: sombraluna


	5. Telepathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This talk has been a long time coming. Quentin didn't expect what was coming, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got told this could be interpreted as like,,,, slightly romantic but I didn't wanna change it so if you wanna interpret it as a they both have a crush on the other one but don't wanna say it you can I guess. I don't know. I don't wanna be the cringey guy who ships a character of his with a bitch ass motherfucker

You're parading around in the Krakoan jungle, looking for something that you weren't really listening to. 

"Hey, asshole." You dodge the rock that's been thrown at your skull, knowing it could have killed you. 

"It wouldn't kill you to stop with the murder attempts, you know," you snark back. 

Malachi grins. "Yeah, but there's no fun in that. Besides, we can be resurrected at any time we want so what's the point?" You feel the familiar ache to reach inside his mind, to pull out the part of his brain that speaks like this. He's trying to get you to kill him, and you know it has something to do with getting a new body. 

"Malachi, I died before and resurrected myself. That shit hurts. But, if you want, knock yourself out." His psychic block wavers, a little. You catch an emotion you can't quite identify. 

He smiles serenely. "Okay, Quentin." He vanishes, with a flash of What-Is-And-What-Is-Not, leaving you standing in the Krakoan forest. 

"Shit!" You shout, to no one in particular. 

"Geez, kid, calm down," Logan says in your mind. Oops, you must've accidentally projected that thought. You can feel his grin.

* * *

You bring yourself out of the void, just in time to watch a few of your teammates flinch. "Dammit, Quentin," Jubilee hisses. 

"What'd he do?" 

She jumps. "God, I forget about your secondary mutation. Uh, he's pissed about something or other. Psychic projection." She raises an eyebrow at you. "Please don't tell me you two have been fighting." 

You bite the inside of your lip. "No, I don't think so. He probably just stubbed his toe again." Holy shit, are you glad for your psychic block. 

* * *

Malachi walks into the room that you two _still_ share. He seems subdued. 

"Are you mad at me?" He asks. 

You raise an eyebrow. He doesn't do the whole feelings thing, and you don't either. "Why?" You ask. 

"You're an omega level mutant who psychically _shouted _into the minds of everyone on Krakoa right after I left. I wanna know if I said something rude." 

God, you hate people-pleasers. Malachi is standing in your room, terrified that he said something wrong, and you have half a mind to _tell him he didn't._ You can't ruin your facade now. 

You kick back your feet to recline on your bed. "What does being an omega-level mutant have to do with anything?" 

"You're avoiding the question, but if you must know, I thought you'd have better control over your powers. Now, tell me what I did." 

You know if you don't tell him he'll grill you about it in class tomorrow. Perks of being a teacher. You groan. "You threw a rock at me." 

He's trying not to show his regret, and failing miserably. "Shit, dude. You know I'd never have actually hit you." 

"Actually... It's not about that." He looks green. "It's about what you said. You keep talking like you _want_ to be reborn Krakoa-style. I don't get it." You pause. "Obviously, I'm perfect, so I don't get it." 

He flops down on his bed. "You think I'm suicidal." 

"I never said that."

"I am." 

"Oh." 

He closes his eyes. "Not in the whole I-wanna-die-so-i-can-stay-dead way, if I get reborn I won't... I'll..." He clears his throat. "I won't be a mass of scar tissue and amputated wings." 

"You'll have them back." 

"I won't. Second mutation, remember? Voided that shit out. I'd have to take down my psychic blocks, though. So my consciousness can be stored in Cerebro." 

You ignore the urge to try and break his blocks down and get into his mind. "Your first mutation... if it's not the wings, then what is it?" 

He meets your gaze. "Dude, are you serious? I'm a telepath." 

* * *

It makes sense, sort of. You know Malachi wasn't human before being a mutant. Something about a human mother and a dad who Malachi resembles greatly. Horns, ears, skin, whatever. You guess the healing factor goes with it as well. It's just that he's a _telepath._ Like you. That's how he's been blocking you from his mind. You wouldn't care, but he didn't tell you. He didn't trust you. 

Actually, stop that train of thought. Of course he didn't trust you, you're Kid Omega. You've tried to kill the X-Men more times than the normal person can count, and you've tried to kill Malachi about six times now. As much as you hate to admit it, he's right for not telling you. 

"You're surprised." 

You're not really sure what to say. You can think over a billion thoughts a second, but right now your head is empty. "I guess." 

He props himself up on his elbow. "You've seen me climb up walls before and do what can best be described as a 'double jump.' Surely you didn't think I'm a shitty Spider-Man ripoff." 

"I can fly, so forgive me if I never thought about using my telepathy to _climb on walls._" 

"Most of my energy goes into my psychic block. Always has. Plus, it's not like I want to fly. I couldn't fly with my wings when I still had them, so why would I want to fly now?" 

"It's cool?" 

"Not really. It's kinda lame." 

You're about to say something but he throws a water bottle at you. "Go to bed, asshole." 

You turn off the light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man Ass  
twitter and insta: @sombralunaart  
tumblr: sombraluna


	6. What If..? Beach Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember in X-Men Schism when Wolverine and Cyclops beat the absolute shit out of each other on the beach of Utopia while a sentinel attacks them? I decided to write a different ending to the run, one where the telepath who can heal shuts them both down. Near-fatal injury ensues, though the story ends the same way as Schism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU HAVEN'T READ SCHISM THERE'S NOT REALLY THAT MANY SPOILERS BUT IT ENDS THE SAME WAY AND YOU SHOULD GO TO readcomiconline.to OR PICK UP THE SERIES TO GET THE CONTEXT OF THIS

Scott and Logan are fighting on the beach -again- while a sentinel advances towards Utopia. Malachi, ever the bystander, flinches as Scott blasts Logan right in the face, scorching half his skull and most likely melting his brain. He extends his psychics towards the two, and is almost floored by the sheer amount of rage emanating from the both of them. _Jesus Christ._ He steps through the void, through the inky darkness of non-existence, and emerges a good distance away from the two, yet close enough to hear them shouting. 

The sentinel, ever the death machine, does not slow in its journey, but a few of the island's residents began to attack it. He turns his attention back to the pair, wincing as someone's nose shatters. Ever so carefully, he once again teleports closer, until he can feel the sand they kick up hitting his boots. He reaches into their minds, pushing down the nausea at their negativity, and shuts it down. For Scott, it works. He collapses on the sand. Unfortunately for Malachi, the second he lets go of Logan's mind, he is instantly speared with adamantium claws. 

Wolverine, ever the angry bastard, reacts aptly to having his mind invaded, at least until the red clears from his vision. 

"Oh god," he whispers. 

Malachi's ears are ringing, and he vaguely registers the burning in his chest before the adrenaline kicks in. He instantly becomes hyper-aware of his situation, the intrusion in his heart. "Ouch," he notes, collapsing onto the beach. 

"Wh..?" Scott intones. "Shit!" He yells, the second the situation becomes clear. 

"Kid, I am so sorry," Logan growls. 

Malachi rolls his eyes at the apology. "Pull your claws out," he rasps. 

"You'll bleed out," Scott says. 

"Pull them out, Logan." 

Logan acquiesces, and Malachi bites back a scream, his blood pouring out of the three holes in his chest. Adrenaline doesn't fix the sensation of one's heart collapsing in on itself, he notes. He hisses a breath out of his nose, or as well as he can with his lungs collapsing as well. 

Logan and Scott attempt a futile effort to put pressure on the wound, blood pouring from the cracks in their fingers. Malachi notes that the sentinel is horribly close, almost at the shore, at least before Scott notices, and blasts it as hard as he can, knocking it back a good six meters. 

"Shit, kid, I'm so sorry. You messed with my mind, and I..." Malachi slaps a bloody hand over his mouth, and takes a deep breath. 

"Logan," Scott says. 

"Not now, Slim." 

"Logan." 

"What?" 

Malachi spits out blood, and pushes Logan's hand away from his chest, revealing the already-closing wound. "I have a healing factor too," he groans, as the void chews at his wound, closing his chest and licking at the blood draining from his body. He slowly pushes himself to his feet, and then disappears with tendrils of darkness trailing behind, but not before punching the two astounded men on the beach. He reappears on top of the sentinel, wrapping the void around its head, and letting it eat at the metal. 

Idie shoots a blast of fire at one of the eye sensors, half-blinding the sentinel. Malachi sends her a telepathic thank you, before jumping off of the sentinel just in time to avoid more attacks. He falls into the void, once again ceasing to exist before pulling himself back into existence on the beach. He flops down on the sand just as his wound heals completely. 

The sentinel collapses into the ocean, and Malachi grins. "Good riddance, asshole!" He yells before disappearing again. 

A few days later, Logan leaves the island, telling anyone who wishes to leave with him to leave. Malachi watches Idie and Quentin leave, along with others on the island, before boarding as well, though he does not intend to go and restart the Xavier institute. Not yet, anyways. It's time for him to return home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this while listening to Crossfire by Stephen so go check the song out and go check out Schism  
(also this story here in Malachi's story is basically when he changes his name to Lunian and tells SHIELD he's done with them unless they pay really well) (if you dont read Twitter but Not Good go read it coward)  
twitter and insta: @sombralunaart  
tumblr: sombraluna


	7. The Phoenix Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning that the future is not in your favour yields some unpleasant feelings. Just remember, the Phoenix burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is based off of an rp that i put malachi in for fun and because i am a coward

_The Apocalypse is coming._

The words left Inyina's mouth hours ago, but they haven't stopped echoing in Malachi's head. He replays the memories he'd stolen from her head, the words Met had whispered to her, and he wonders if it's too late to pray to the gods he'd renounced years ago. 

"It's almost two A.M., Malachi. Go to sleep." He doesn't respond to Rachel for a few minutes, the silence roaring in his ears. She waits, though, her hands on her hips, as if she's not aware he has insomnia. She waits until he comes down to reality, and then sits beside him. 

"I don't think I like the idea of voudou gods telling me visions of the future where I get possessed by the Phoenix and go absolutely insane," he whispers. 

Rachel nods, and he remembers she's been a host before and will be again. He remembers Jean, Namor, Quentin, and Hope. He remembers the inside of their minds, and the fire that screams in Quentin's. He rests his chin on his knees and turns to her. 

"No offense to En Sabah Nur, but I don't feel like being his horseman. 'Specially not Famine." 

She shrugs. "Well, according to the spirits, they think once the Phoenix leaves you and possesses Quentin, there's a 50/50 chance that he either becomes a horseman alongside you, or destroys you both."

"There's also a 50/50 chance that this is the timeline it happens in. I know."

She tilts her head, and he can almost feel her slight frustration that he's blocked everyone from his mind. "Didn't you give a lecture in class about how time is constantly mutable and cite yourself as a source?" 

He tries-and fails-to resist the cocky grin that slips onto his face. "Hank gave me a B, as well." 

She smiles back. "Well then, if you don't end the world-or try-I'm sure he'll give you an A." She stands up and turns to go back to bed. "Don't worry about it. Besides, you've got friends here, and you're not an Omega-Level mutant. Night, Cera." 

"...Night." He watches her back as she trudges away, and the second she's out of sight, he curls in on himself once again. He won't be sleeping tonight, nor for a few days to come. No, his thoughts will be plagued with the Apocalypse, of him standing in an empty desert city in Arizona, and pledging himself to Apocalypse. His thoughts will be of what he already knows. _The Phoenix burns, and what it burns will never stop._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people whove read twitter but not good and come here for me to retcon a lot of shit, how does it feel?  
twitter, insta, tiktok: @sombralunaart  
tumblr: sombraluna
> 
> please ask me things about stuff


	8. Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, Malachi and Kurt were very similar. Their first interactions went like this:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING: DEATH! INJURY!!! Uh. hell. thats it

They were both blue-skinned demonic teleporters, it only made sense for the two of them to finally speak. Their first meeting was in the Xavier Institute. Malachi was just a student then, though he graduated in a month, and was asked to return as a substitute teacher while Logan was away.

“Mister Cera. I have heard about you.”

Their first meeting took place in the office of Professor Charles Xavier, who was alive yet again. Malachi had been summoned by Professor X, though as he gazed at the furry teleporter in front of him, he had begun to suspect something.

“Mr. Wagner. I’d like to hope for good things, but since I’m here as a capitol punishment, well…” He turned to the Professor and cleared his throat. “Why did you need to see me?”

“Malachi, you have a month until you graduate. Granted, your classes you take are mostly remedial telepathy or matter manipulation, but you’re doing well enough that I have taken it upon myself to excuse you for the day.”

“Sounds fake, Xavier. What do you really want?” This earned him a raised eyebrow from Nightcrawler, but he ignored it.

“You two have a lot in common, and I believe it would beneficial for the two of you to discuss the matter,” the professor admitted.

Malachi glanced around the well-decorated office. He couldn’t see any traps, nor read the professor’s mind, so he gave in. “Alright, I guess.”

“Wonderful! Please, come with me,” Kurt said. He gestured for Malachi to follow.

The two strode from the room and down the hall, until Nightcrawler stopped abruptly. “The room where we are to meet is directly above here,” he said. Then, without warning, he BAMFed away, leaving behind the slight smell of Sulphur. Malachi took the hint, and melted into the void, reappearing in the room directly above.

“Your teleportation is… familiar,” Kurt admitted. “It reminds me of Darkveil and Cloak.” He pulled a chair up to one of the many tables in the room, and sat down. Malachi mirrored his actions. “Do you teleport through the Darkforce dimension?”

Malachi shrugged. “I’m… not sure. I call it the Void, since it’s just the lack of. I’d say it’s darkness, but it isn’t just that. It’s hungry, but it isn’t sentient. It craves what doesn’t and what no longer exists. It craves…” He stopped. “It’s like a vacuum of everything that is and will be. That’s why there are things in the world that don’t exist. Because the Void owns them.”

Kurt nodded, though Malachi could hear his questions floating around in his head. “And you are also a telepath, no?”

“I… guess. I’m not sure if that includes telekinesis or any sort of psionics.”

“You know, Xavier told us to talk because he’s been in your head, recently. The time you dropped you psychic block, he saw your past. He saw that you also have a demonic father, and that you used to be able to switch between looking like that and appearing human, but were born visibly mutated, just like me.”

Malachi pushed back his chair and stood up, pacing to the end of the room. “Kurt, listen. He wants us to bond because we’re both blue teleporters who are hated by any Catholic in sight.” He turned to face the German. “I’m here because I killed people. I’m not someone you want to know.” With that, he was gone.

Their next meeting was when Malachi returned as a teacher. Nineteen years old and wound up so tight that he thought he’d explode. He’d walked into the history classroom and seen Kurt, and vanished for an hour. It was a second in the real world, but Malachi needed the time. He reappeared with the usual lack of flare, and had telepathically asked Kurt if he was okay.

The class went fine, as it turned out Wolverine had written very clear and eloquent notes that smelled faintly of rich tobacco and Canadian whiskey. After class, Kurt stayed, seated in a chair in the back. Malachi had simply raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re wondering why I’m his temporary replacement instead of you or Scott, I don’t know.”

“That’s not what I was wondering.”

Malachi leaned back in his chair and tried to smile. “It was, Kurt. You just weren’t going to ask.”

“I’m here because I’ve been told more about your most recent mission. I want to… talk.” His yellow eyes gleamed in earnest.

"I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ja, I know.” He sighed. “But you need to. We both know that.”

He rolled his eyes. “I have another class in twenty minutes. What do you want to know?”

“Why did you return looking like you had gone to hell?”

“Because I did. Next question.”

“What happened?”

He hesitated. “I paid a price.” The price in question was a constant ticking noise that permeated his thoughts. It counted down. To what, he didn’t know.

Kurt did not seem impressed. “What did it entail?” His prehensile tail flicked idly behind him, and Malachi pushed away a stray thought about whether the pointed tip could stab him.

He glowered at the other demonic mutant. “I got my body shredded apart and put back together for 70 years. I didn’t finish my sentence, luckily or unluckily, depending who you ask.” He pushed his chair back and stood up, checking his watch. “Ten minutes left, Kurt.”

"There’s something you’re not telling me here. You’ve admitted that something horrible happened but…” He trailed off. “Jean told me you haven’t slept in a week. You barely use your powers anymore, and you look _green_ when you eat, which is hard considering you’re blue!”

Malachi teleported directly in front of Kurt and leaned forwards so that their noses were touching. “I’m alive, mon ami. What more do you want of me?” With a puff of cold air, he was back at the mahogany desk that stood at the front of the room.

“You may be alive, liebchen, but you are not living.” With that, Kurt BAMFed away in a puff of smoke. Malachi closed his eyes and tried to ignore the growing numbness that ate at his soul.

_T_ick._ Tick. Tick._

It had been a year, and Malachi still rarely slept, though he ate food once again and used his powers. If anyone noticed the way he tensed at touch, they didn’t mention it. The countdown was getting closer, and today he was on edge. It was like a voice, whispering in every thought he had, and it left him tense and unable to sit still.

“Did you take your meds today?” Quentin had asked, noticing Malachi rocking in his chair, arms wrapped around himself.

“_Yes_,” he hissed. “It’s not the ADHD.”

The pink-haired mutant had mumbled something along the lines of ‘wish you’d take down that stupid block so I could shut your brain off,’ but Malachi just banged his head off of the upholstery of the armchair until Logan dragged him to the danger room.

“Hey!” He yelled, but made no attempt to free himself. “What the hell?”

“Tired of seein’ you fidget n’ stuff. Yer goin’ crazy, so m’ takin’ you for a run, an’ yer gonna tell me what’s eatin’ ya,” Logan had growled.

“Alright, shortstack,” he responded, and let the older man activate the training room. The scenario was somewhere Malachi had been before, though he wasn’t a fan of tall buildings. They were in Hell’s Kitchen, atop a building, fighting Lady Deathstrike. Malachi shrugged. He wasn’t adverse to fighting any of Wolverine’s enemies, especially if they had a healing factor. It just meant he didn’t have to hold back.

Lady Deathstrike lunged, faster than Malachi could predict, and impaled him with her claws. He responded by pulling her arm out of his body and twisting it until he heard a _snap_. His healing factor was taking care of the wound he’d just received, but her other arm became a problem when it lodged in his throat and quickly pulled away -as did the rest of her- to attack Logan.

Malachi gasped for breath until his healing factor decided to seal his trachea up properly, to which he jumped up a breathed out a cloud of The Void, that he focused on sending after Bullseye, who had just spawned into this scenario.

Bullseye threw a dagger, which Malachi’s mist consumed hungrily, giving him chance to absorb it back into himself and uppercut Bullseye. He followed it up by sweeping Bullseye’s feet from under him, but was pulled down by the villain and straddled. He blocked the first punch, but his cheekbone broke under the force of the second. His eyes rolled back and he exhaled a torrent of mist, which began to eat at Bullseye’s skin and muscle. He kicked the villain off of him and stood up just as Logan finished off the fake Lady Deathstrike. The ticking in his head had not stopped, but Malachi felt relieved to feel that he was no longer focusing on it.

“Yer bleedin’,” Logan noted. Malachi looked down at the throwing knife sticking from his shoulder and midriff.

“Damn, guess I must’ve not absorbed all of the stuff he threw,” he mused, pulling the one sticking from his shoulder out with a grunt.

“The danger room was set for me, so it took into account my healin’ factor an’ made sure I could get hurt,” Logan explained.

“You should see my sessions. It’s all fun and games -ngh- until Apocalypse shows up and beats me half to death.” He tossed the remaining knife aside, and hissed as his skin closed.

Logan sheathed his claws and raised a thick eyebrow pointedly. “Alright, yer not about to explode anymore, so spill.”

Malachi flopped onto the ground, and patted the spot beside him. “You were there, on the mission. The one where they dragged me to hell.”

Logan nodded. The danger room scene faded around them until they were sitting in a white room. “You were in there for about six-no- seven hours.”

He nodded. “Yes, but no. Time passes differently in there. An hour is about ten years, Logan.”

“You were in there for seventy years, then.” The Canadian scratched at his beard.

Malachi squeezed his eyes shut. “I was in there for seventy fuckin’ years, and they said it was penance. Penance for killing their leader!” He laughed. “My father can’t seem to just stay dead, non?”

"There’s more t’ this. Can smell it on ya.”

“I got out by making a deal. Y’know, the kinds that everyone says you shouldn’t.” His shoulders shook. “Told the bastards that I’d let them ‘leave their mark’ or whatever if they’d let me go.”

“So their mark is causing this, right?”

“Their mark is a countdown. Every moment that I’m awake or asleep or… anything! All I hear is ticking!” He paused, breathing heavily. “Two weeks, ten minutes, and thirty-six seconds. The clock is counting down to something, and I don’t know what. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Did ya ever stop to consider the countdown was t’ drive you crazy?” Logan asked. “Ever think that maybe it’s the countdown until ya crack?”

He stood up quickly and pressed a button on his wrist. The danger room spawned a dummy, and he kicked it as hard as he could. “Yes, Logan! I considered everything! It’s been over a year and I haven’t slept, Logan!” He landed a punch that left the dummy shaking. “Your damn boyfriend told you that.”

Logan sat in silence. Malachi assaulted the dummy, managing to summon enough strength to rip its head off. He stood there heaving, until Logan finally spoke. “Whatever happens, we’ll stand behind ya, kid.” He stood up and strode away, leaving Malachi standing in the empty room.

_Tick, tick, tick._

They were on a mission when the countdown stopped. The numbers hit zero, just as Nightcrawler teleported in the way of an attack meant for another team member. It went through his chest, destroying his heart.

Malachi stumbled towards Kurt, the only thought going through his mind was ‘who’s screaming?’ He realized, as he spit out darkness towards Kurt’s attacker, that it was he who was screaming. It would be a while before he would interact with Kurt again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thinking about how hawkeye freefall
> 
> twitter and insta: @sombralunaart  
tumblr: sombraluna  
kurt: wagner


	9. Two Paths Diverge: The End Of The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your name is Malachi Cera, and holy shit do you have a massive problem on your hands. So massive, in fact, that it may actually kill you. 
> 
> The problem, in question, is the Phoenix. Of course it's the Phoenix, it's always the Phoenix. The Phoenix at the Xavier institute, to be precise. Just a typical Tuesday for Jean Grey, but a fate you'd rather not confront for yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna make two separate chapters for each choice because i wanna write both paths. Also I put Jimmy in this because hes still just out there and in character limbo so i thought in this specific timeline he should maybe get some love

Your name is Malachi Cera, and holy _shit_ do you have a massive problem on your hands. So massive, in fact, that it may actually kill you. 

The problem, in question, is the Phoenix. Of course, it's the Phoenix, it's _always_ the Phoenix. The Phoenix at the Xavier Institute, to be precise. Just a typical Tuesday for Jean Grey, but a fate you'd rather not confront for yourself. 

You register a faint psychic yelling in the back of your mind before getting body slammed by a Wolverine, who's just knocked you out of the way of getting scorched. You're not actually sure _which_ Wolverine saved your ass, but whichever one it is thankfully happens to smell better than Logan, so you take a moment to mentally applaud them for that effort. 

The Wolverine stands up slowly, crushing your arm and also spleen in the process, though nothing actually ruptures. They offer you a hand, and you take it, calluses and all, their hand cradling your smaller hands. You note that once again, someone under five foot six has larger hands than you. You also note that whichever Wolverine this is, they're kinda cute. Blond, scruffy, close to your age. Flanneled, as everyone except for Daken tends to be.

The Phoenix screeches her death song again and shoots fire at the two of you, but you grab the blond Wolverine and 'port you both the hell outta there before the going starts to get rough. You re-appear in the other direction, 15 feet away, and then hold out your hand. 

"Malachi Cera. Lunian. Whatever. Nice to meet you." 

He -he's definitely a dude- stares at you before shaking your hand. "Jimmy Hudson. Wolverine. Alternate universe. I don't think you exist there." 

You shrug. You're not exactly a universal constant like Spider-Man or Wolverine. "Thanks for savin' me, I guess. I do have a healing factor, though."

He flushes, something you're not used to seeing from a Wolverine, and gives something akin to a smile. "Well, saved you about ten minutes of absolute hell." The irony is not lost on you, though it absolutely is on him.

He dashes off to rejoin the fight, though you're not sure how a cosmic entity made of fire _can_ be fought with claws and rage, but that's sort of also your speciality, so you bite and teleport back into the fray. You're fast enough to pull Quentin aside before he gets hit by a freshly-tossed Scott Summers. He just grunts and shoves you off the second the danger is no longer imminent, his manic energy finally calmed in battle. 

You teleport again, opening up a rift just in time to catch Scott, depositing him on solid ground. He sucks in a gasp at the sudden change, and you feel slightly apologetic about putting him in the Darkforce dimension. 

"You good, Summers?" You help him up. His grip is like iron and his jaw is clenched, as it always is when he focuses, but he stands up tall again. God, he has got to have dirt in the worst places right now.

"Probably, Cera." He can't fire a blast at the Phoenix without feeding it, so he takes a second to ask you a question instead. "Jean and Rachel aren't here, and we all know Quentin isn't ready for the full power of the Phoenix. So, who does it want this time?" 

You shrug, ever helpful. "I've got no clue, Cyke, but I'm betting I can probably spit out enough darkness to absorb some blasts and create a cover for Quentin to try and trap it in a bubble, at least for a second." You're not actually sure why you lie to him, especially since Rachel's probably told him about the possibility of becoming a horseman, but you do anyways. 

He clenches his fists, but you know he'll relent. Yeah, you're making a risky bet; a coin toss, but he needs to buy time. "Fine. Don't get hit, though. Or possessed." 

_It'll destroy you if it gets you_ hangs in the air, but you choose to ignore in in favour of teleporting directly in front of Rockslide just before he gets hit. You open your mouth and spit out darkness, absorbing Phoenix energy and consuming it. Your eyes widen as the burn fizzles through your essence and _holy shit _does it feel good. Your telepathy, which hasn't worked since you traded the control of it, is awake and thriving. You hear the thoughts of everyone around you, connecting yourself to the team in a way you haven't been in so long. 

The Phoenix, not one to be trifled with, screams again, but this time it's beautiful. A song and you understand it. A tear slips down your cheek before you remember what hearing the song means. The Phoenix wants a host, and she's chosen you. You jump, launching yourself back into the darkness, just before her fire surrounds you, emerging on the steps of the Institute. You scramble to stand up and teleport again, farther away, but she's chasing you now, and it's disorienting as hell.

Fuck, alright. You can do this. You're linked up to everyone, Scott's plans are in your head, Quentin's panic, Jimmy's confusion, Santo's bluster. You teleport over to Santo, shooting him a quick telepathic message to the team. _Fastball special._

Scott mentally screams at you, figuring out what's going on faster than you'd like to give him credit for, but you're already aloft and shooting towards The Phoenix. You've only digested a piece of the Phoenix, enough to make your telepathic ears pop, but the warm fizzing somewhere in your chest seems pretty fuckin' keen on you swallowing the rest of the damned bird, so you figure it can't hurt to try. 

You're so incredibly wrong. 

You spit out Darkforce energy and hit the Phoenix at full force, teeth bared, claws out. Just like god intended. You absorb a sizeable chunk of her and hit the ground with a _thud_. She screams, enraged, charging at the other X-Men, and you're now left with at least one punctured lung and two broken bones. Again, just like god intended.

You come to the conscious realization that you're on fire. Oh god, oh fuck, you're gonna die. You'll burn to death or... wait. You're not _on _fire, you're surrounded by fire. Quentin's jaw drops open just before he gets almost pummeled into the group by the Phoenix diving straight at him. 

You gape at your hands, twisting them and watching as the fire spirals around your limbs. The fire is so warm, it's almost burning, but it feels so _good_ and you want to feel like this forever. It's like standing a little too close to a heater except all over, and if you focus, there's a little part of you that's burning and screaming, or maybe it's all of you, but it feels like bliss. You're not really sure if you feel powerful per se, but the pieces in your soul that have been cold and empty are so full and warm and the rest of you is dying. Unfortunately, the Phoenix no longer looks phased, rather she looks larger than before.

"Malachi, I swear to _fuck_ if you absorbed a shard of the Phoenix I'll kill you!" Quentin screeches, and immediately gets tossed through a window. It's probably one of the funniest things you've ever seen in your life.

It's also apparently hilarious to Rockslide, who loses his shit and in his moment of weakness gets exploded by the Phoenix. You bite back a wince even though you know he'll reform sooner or later.

Scott dodges another blast and grabs onto Jimmy, dragging him towards cover until he gets the picture and runs as well. Now it's just you, the Phoenix, and... Inyina? 

She's calmly standing in front of you, and time seems to stop. You didn't know her Vodou extended to time, and it probably doesn't, but you're willing to pretend she probably didn't just summon a spirit god to help her out. 

"I'm not actually standing here," she informs you. "Well, I am, but only psychically." 

"Just because I just got my telepathy back doesn't mean I don't know how the psychic plane works, _fille_," you retort. "I presume we've got a limited time frame before the Phoenix either just kills me or makes me her host, _non_?" It's a little embarrassing how the Canadian-Cajun French you learned while working for SHIELD creeps back into your voice while talking to her, but it's not like anyone can hear you. 

She rolls her eyes and her tattoos shift. "Yeah, and Papa Legba and the rest of the Lwa are telling me to deliver a message." A forked path appears behind her, one path leading to the future you know so well, that destroyed Arizona town in front of Apocalypse followed by the Phoenix. The other path leads to a future you can't see. The path trails on forwards, surrounded in shadows that your eyes can't peer through, not unlike the darkness of oblivion. Two Lwa stand at her shoulders, one whom you recognize as Papa Legba himself and the other as a spirit you've seen her offer sweets to that he turned to blood. 

"Why not have Janus show up," you scoff. "I'm sure the two-faced bastard would get a kick outta me makin' a choice." 

"Malachi Cera, we stand before you today to present you with a choice. A split path, leading to separate futures," Papa Legba intones. "To the left, you see your fate with the Phoenix, burning yourself until she leaves you in the hands of Apocalypse. I cannot tell you what will happen beyond that. I cannot tell you what choices you will make or whether this choice will have a happy ending. I can only tell you it is a choice." 

"And to the right, you see your fate if you reject her." This time, it is the second Lwa who speaks. He has a wicked grin, and his teeth are stained red. "You are not privy to this future at all, but let me enlighten you." The way he says enlighten makes you slightly nauseous. "This path ends for you. I cannot tell you whether it ends for everyone else, but for you, the Phoenix takes you as her host and it burns you from the inside out because you reject her. " 

"I hate to do this to you, I really do," Inyina says. "Somehow, the choices we've made ended up to here. Now, it's time to make another." 

The Lwa and Inyina have started smouldering, and her eyes grow wide. "We have not much time left, Malachi. Please..." She doesn't finish. You've made your choice, and as you step forwards on the path in the psychic plane, you step towards the Phoenix and meet her. 

What is your choice? 

[Reject The Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376177/chapters/58905058) or [Accept The Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376177/chapters/58229401)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im actually nice and down to talk or send wolverine jorts
> 
> twitter and insta: @sombralunaart  
tumblr: sombraluna


	10. Reject The Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second you step on the path, the illusion vanishes, leaving you back in the real, corporeal world. No time has passed since you began speaking to Inyina, of course, but it feels like it's been ages.
> 
> The Phoenix resumes her warpath and surges towards you, filling your body and mind with her and you realize that she's speaking to you now. She wasn't when you consumed her. Or, maybe she was, but now her voice is loud and clear. 
> 
> "Malachi. Let me in," she hisses, and your senses are on fire. Everything is burning and you can barely breathe or even think. You suck in air, trying to inflate your lungs. You shake your head frantically, squeezing your eyes shut as you collapse to the ground to bury your head between your knees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter! its pretty graphic and there is some death :/

The second you step on the path, the illusion vanishes, leaving you back in the real, corporeal world. No time has passed since you began speaking to Inyina, of course, but it feels like it's been ages.

The Phoenix resumes her warpath and surges towards you, filling your body and mind with _her_ and you realize that she's speaking to you now. She wasn't when you consumed her. Or, maybe she was, but now her voice is loud and clear. 

"Malachi. Let me in," she hisses, and your senses are on fire. Everything is _burning_ and you can barely breathe or even think. You suck in air, trying to inflate your lungs. You shake your head frantically, squeezing your eyes shut as you collapse to the ground to bury your head between your knees. 

"Get out." There's a whining noise in your ears and you clutch weakly at them. "Get out. Get out. Get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out get out! Get out of my head!" You're screaming so loudly that you barely register Scott, who's kneeled next to you and started talking to ground you. 

You choke back bile and grip his hand. You are hyperaware of his heartbeat through his gloves, and it's beating faster than yours. He's terrified, of course, and he's talking you through the Phoenix liquifying your organs. He places his right hand over that of yours that's already crushing his left and continues babbling something about breathing. It's almost absurd, how your leader has stopped the battle and simply began comforting you through being incinerated from the inside out. _Just like one would do to a terminal cancer patient_, you muse. Ironic.

You think the Phoenix has shut your telepathy down again because you can't feel the comforting buzz of it. Then again, everything is buzzing, so maybe you're just overwhelmed. 

So, you're not an omega-level telepath. You know that. Nowhere near it, especially since your brain hotline has been more or less shut down due to an injury you couldn't heal completely. But, you are an omega-level mutant, and yet that somehow makes this situation worse. Your innate link to the Darkforce dimension is feeding on the Phoenix, and in turn, she's turning you into living kindling. The Phoenix has fried (ha) your healing factor, shut down your powers, and now, you're going to die. 

"Scott." Jimmy grips Scott's shoulder. "I can smell him burning alive." 

You don't remember Jimmy coming closer, but your eyes are trying to roll back in your head and brain matter is starting to drip from your nose, so you don't think too hard on it. Your skin is blistering and smouldering, but Scott keeps his grip on your hand, and you think to yourself: _I don't want to die._

"Of course you don't, darling, no one does. Not really." A cool palm rests against your cheek and you sigh in relief. "Regrettably, you're going to perish in the arms of Scott Summers." The speaker's voice is soft and melodic, and it reverberates through the air. You raise your stinging eyes to gaze upon the solemn face of the angel Raziel. 

"Hey, Razi. It's been a while," you choke out. It's been approximately five years since you met the angel in a New York alleyway. 

Their golden eyes lock onto yours, and you feel an aura of peace wash over you. "Malachi, I'm sorry." 

You manage a slight upturn of your lips, even though you're in near agony. "There's nothing to apologize for, _cher._ Legba told me this was gonna happen." 

They manage a thin-albeit strained- smile in return at the French term of endearment. You yearn to see what their full, joyous smile looks like. "I am sorry that you are suffering, my friend. I am sorry that you could not complete all the things you had envisioned in your future." 

Your eyes stray to Scott, Jimmy, Quentin, Santo, and Inyina. They are unaware that you're in the presence of an angel, and you wish they could see Raziel, but that's not how fate will play out. Not this time. Maybe not ever. 

"Can I..." The words get stuck in your throat. "Can I say goodbye?" 

You blink, and they're gone, leaving you to spend the final minutes of your life bleeding on Scott Summers. You scramble to say something, anything. Something to let the people you care about know how much leaving them is hurting. You reach for your phone, but your hands are slick with blood and you drop it onto the ground. Scott takes pity on you and picks it up. 

"Malachi..." he trails off. 

"'M dyin', Scott. I gotta say goodbye." You swallow the lump forming in your throat. "Please." 

He clenches his jaw and gives a curt nod. "Yeah. Sure. Password?" 

"9760." 

He enters the code and opens up your contact list. "Home, right?" 

"Oui." You try to nod. He presses the button, and after a few rings, your little sister picks up. "Hey, petit." Your voice is hoarse. "Can you get Mum and everyone else? S'il te plait?" 

"Yeah, sure." You wait for a minute or two before she picks up the phone again. "They're all here, dude." 

You struggle to not let your voice crack as you relay the news. "Hey, everyone. I'm sure you remember Legba's prophesy about the Phoenix. It ah- it came true." You hear a small gasp on the other side of the line, and someone whispering 'non.' "I'm dying, ma famille. And before you ask, I don't think I'm comin' back. Raziel's here." 

A traitorous tear rolls down your cheek, and you squeeze your eyes shut. _This can't be it,_ you think. "Mal, please," one of your brothers beg. 

"I'm sorry," you mumble. "Please don't hate me. 'M sorry. S'il Vous Plait. Don't hate me. I'm so fucking sorry. Please-" 

You are standing over your body, as you have all the other times you've died. Raziel rests their glimmering hand on your shoulder and squeezes, ever so slightly. "It's time." 

You hear your family screaming on the other side of the line, begging for you to wake up 'to come back Malachi, please, wake up. You can do this.' You can't. You collapse to the ground and let out a scream of anguish as tears roll freely down your cheeks.

The afternoon light begins to fade, turning Xavier's gold, and your corpse shines as the last of the Phoenix leaves your body. Your body goes still and waxen, and Scott hangs his head and lifts your phone to his ear to tell your mother. You beat the ground with your fists. 

"Can't go. Please, Razi. I jus' started teaching. Please, cher. I can't leave them. I can't." Your soul does not bear the burns of the Phoenix as your body does. You crawl over and cup your corpse's cheek and stare at the tear tracks through the soot on his face. You don't look peaceful like the dead should. Your mouth is slightly agape and your eyes are blankly staring at nothing, the slit pupils dilated even though the light is shining directly into them. You feel numb. 

"I can't feel any brain activity," Quentin says. "He's gone." No one moves, hoping you'll wake up in six minutes like you always do. They sit there waiting for you to suck in a breath and to begin healing, but it never comes.

"Malachi," Raziel speaks, their voice the voice of many. "It is your time to depart from this mortal realm and take your place among the skies and those that dwell in the Heavenly Realm." They hold out their hand, and you know you can refuse and stay as a spirit that is destined to haunt the lands. You bow your head and close your eyes. 

"Rise, demon. It is time another fiendish spirit joined our ranks." 

You take their hand. It's warm.

* * *

Malachi's funeral is thrown two days after his death. It's solemn, and most unlike the humourous celebration he'd outlined when he joined the X-Men. Jean had tried to make his corpse look normal, she had, but his blue skin prevented to use of makeup and the burn marks were visible. And yet, it is an open casket. 

"We are here to celebrate the life and _many_ deaths of Lunian, better known as Malachi Matthew Cera," Kurt begins. A few chuckle softly. "Many of you did not know him, or only knew him as a substitute teacher here at the Xavier Institute. Malachi was a son, a brother, a teammate, and a vigilante. He was an X-Man. He rode the highs and lows of being a mutant his whole life, and now, lies here before us, having lost his life to the Phoenix. 

"Malachi, unlike myself, was not a God-fearing man. However, he was raised Catholic by a demon, who was his father. The irony was never lost on him. He based most of his life around irony. A demon persecuted by humans and a demon alike becomes a vigilante. He gains telepathy, only to lose the ability to control it after being shot in the skull. His first moniker was Midnight Angel, despite having his wings cut off. 

"Malachi is survived by three brothers, a sister, and a mother. He wrote a letter to them, once. I will now read it." 

_Salut, idiots. _

_I wrote a letter to you the first time I attempted suicide. I died. I woke up six minutes later, covered in blood. I shredded the letter. I wrote another letter, the second time. That's where most of the scars on my wrists came from. You'll never guess what happened, by the way. The third time, I wrote a letter. I hung myself with barbed wire and hoped it'd shred me up so bad I wouldn't be able to heal. I woke up, seven minutes later, and I couldn't breathe for twelve. That's where I got my neck scar from. _

_I'm afraid I'm a bit old fashioned. I write letters, maybe for the gothic aesthetic, maybe not. I don't know. I've written over 732 letters in my life, and this is going to be the 733rd. I'll probably write more after this, to be honest, but I'd like this one to stand out. This is essentially my 'pull in case of fire' lever, but it's a letter for when I die. _

_I've never belonged here. I know it sounds pretentious. But it's true. You know it's true. I'm a half-demon mutant whose Jewish mother converted to Catholicism and who was raised as a child assassin. I don't think I ever should've been born. I still ask myself, every day, if today's gonna be the day I try again. I know it won't work. _

_I think every time I go on a mission or fight someone or get hurt or die I'm self-harming. I think I'm committing some sort of pseudo-suicide. I know dying won't help me. I know it makes me feel worse. I also know that I don't want to die anymore. I don't know why, exactly. I realized that when I was making a shitty joke, one day, and I told Bobby Drake I didn't want to die. So, here it is. I don't want to die. I know what happens on the other side, and I know I'm banned from Hell, which means I'm functionally immortal until Heaven decides I'm worthy enough to enter. _

_Unfortunately, I know the day Raziel descends to summon my sorry ass is getting closer. I care about things now. I love people, and I feel remorse at the things I've done. I don't kill any more. I don't seek out drugs, and I don't cause trouble for the hell of it. I'm becoming a better person, and I fear that my sins will be forgiven one day. I'm scared. I'm not scared of death. I'm scared to lose you. My friends, my family, my career. I hope you're just as scared to lose me. _

_Sincerely, Malachi. _

"And now, our Headmistress, Kitty Pryde, will speak." 

The funeral ends in silence, the last notes of some song Malachi had loved fading into nothingness. Malachi's mother says nothing, but places her hand on the cheek of her son, recoiling at the coldness. She does not shed a tear, nor does she speak. She leaves without a word to anyone, her four remaining children following her. 

Malachi is buried in the graveyard, with only a few remaining to see him lowered into the earth's gaping maw. His tombstone, simple granite, says only his name and dates of birth to death. The burial ends, and then those that remain alive disperse to resume their lives. 

When he is sure everyone is gone, a lone figure climbs the hill and stand at the lone grave. He was not present at the funeral, and if asked, he will never admit to it; he places flowers on the grave. Blue irises, Malachi's favourite flower. Perhaps, if Malachi had been there, he would have whispered his thanks. 

* * *

You open your eyes and suck in a deep breath. You are covered in an orange fluid and resting inside of an egg. You crawl out of it, slowly, and catch your breath on the ground. You glance up when a large shadow falls across your line of vision, and rub the goo from your eyes. 

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Malachi Cera. Welcome to Krakoa." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a really hard chapter to write because I'm bad at writing or imagining characters who have parents that care abt them :)  
twitter, tiktok, and insta: @sombralunaart  
Tumblr: sombraluna


	11. Accept The Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second you step on the path, the illusion vanishes, leaving you back in the real, corporeal world. No time has passed since you began speaking to Inyina, of course, but it feels like it's been ages.
> 
> The Phoenix resumes her warpath and surges towards you, filling your body and mind with her and you realize that she's speaking to you now. She wasn't when you consumed her. Or, maybe she was, but now her voice is loud, clear, and ethereal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: violence and death

The second you step on the path, the illusion vanishes, leaving you back in the real, corporeal world. No time has passed since you began speaking to Inyina, of course, but it feels like it's been ages.

The Phoenix resumes her warpath and surges towards you, filling your body and mind with _her_ and you realize that she's speaking to you now. She wasn't when you consumed her. Or, maybe she was, but now her voice is loud, clear, and ethereal.

"Malachi. Let me in," she hisses, and your senses are aflame. Everything you can see is _burning_ and you can barely breathe or even think- but you nod. 

"Okay," you finally whisper, and if a cosmic being made of fire could smile, she would. She settles herself into your bones and entwines herself through your psyche, and thus you feel what semblance of self you had beginning to burn away. It's disorienting and intoxicating.

The first thing you notice when you open your eyes is that your skin, previously mottled with different shades of blue, is a solid azure now. It had slowly been progressing throughout the years, but it appears that the Phoenix has completed a transformation of sorts. Your next notice is that you aren't wearing your uniform. You're wearing something similar, but it has her insignia emblazoned on the chest rather than the yellow or even the moon you're accustomed to displaying. You quickly decide that green is _not_ your colour. 

"Shit," Scott whispers, and you raise your eyes and meet his. Rather, you raise your eyes and gaze at his visor. 

"I know, right? Green looks horrible on me," you joke, even though your vision is getting blurry and your skin is starting to crawl. You feel like your nose is bleeding, and it probably is, what with all the psychic stress you're going through. You release your telepathic shields for only minute relief.

He holds out his hands in a placating gesture. "Are you okay? Can I come closer?" You feel his anxiety coming off of him in waves. His mind is racing too quickly for you to hold onto a thought and comprehend it, but you can guess what they are. His wife was the Phoenix so many damn times it's probably seared into his memory like the torrents of flames that surround you.

You feel as if the second you open your mouth flames will come out, but when you try to speak nothing happens. You try again. "I feel like I've just taken the best drugs ever and then thrown my body into a meat grinder," you confess. 

Jimmy looks terrified, and you don't blame him. "Malachi, you smell like burning flesh," he notes. You notice he's crouched, low to the ground as if expecting you to lash out. Fair enough. You're starting to feel like you need to destroy something, and it's really weird. The Phoenix is whispering in your mind again but you don't understand what she's saying and it's driving you crazy. 

"I... feel like burning flesh. Is it just me, or does it feel like my skin is too small?" 

Quentin lands about ten feet behind Scott suddenly, and you have to restrain yourself from just destroying him. "Malachi, you _need_ to get her out of you. She's gonna shred you from the inside out!" 

You laugh, almost hysterically, and tears begin streaming down your face in metaphorical buckets. "Yeah, Q, I noticed. Don't ya think it's a little late?" 

This time you speak, flames do come out of your mouth. It's so much, sizzling through your skin and you collapse onto your knees, only to stand up moments later, your green swapped for red. The Phoenix is screaming through the static in your head for control now, and you can't understand what Scott or Quentin are saying to you, but you feel like...

You blackout. 

You wake up about 300 miles above the ground, but it's not you in control of your body. You feel pleasantly sleepy, and you close your subconscious eyes again, just for a bit. The Phoenix urges you to let her take care of everything, and you murmur contently as your consciousness spirals back down into warm darkness. You dream, but in the manner that one does when they are sedated in a doctor's office, with mumbling voices and distorted thoughts.

You wake up for the final time, and you're no longer flying. You're standing somewhere in the desert, you think, and there's a large, blue-skinned man in front of you. If you look out of the corner of your eyes, you can see a town, and you wonder if the man lives there. You try to open your mouth to ask him who he is, to ask him where you are or how you got here, but no words come. Your memories come rushing back to you, though fragmented, and you remember that you're not you anymore. You're just along for the ride. 

"_Apocalypse,_" your mouth says.

His black lips quirk into somewhat of a smile, and you wonder why the Phoenix wants to speak to him. He opens his mouth to speak, and his voice is somehow quiet and booming all at the same time. It feels like waves crashing against the shore of your very soul. "Phoenix. That is not your host. You cannot hope to destroy me in that form." Every single one of your instincts is screaming at you to beg for forgiveness.

Your body's face remains calm but you feel her rage building up inside, and it's burning at your soul. You let out a scream, but your body does not move a muscle. 

"Do not worry, En Sabah Nur. This one will be for you," she rasps. "To make this more entertaining."

Abruptly, she's in the air and you feel your body shoot fire and all manners of hell at the blue man, and you think you might be screaming for real this time. The Phoenix's essence is leaving your body, her heat somehow blazing hotter as she disappears, and then suddenly, you are in the air, without her. Your eyes roll back in your skull, and you hit the ground. 

The air is forced from your lungs and through your cracked and singed lips. Your telepathy goes out, and suddenly your consciousness feels both too big for your skull and also the right size. You try to move, scream or even swallow, but your body wants nothing more than to shut down for a few millennia, and who are you to deny it? 

You sink into a comfortable nothingness that this time does not burn. 

You crack open your eyes to a loud clinking noise and instantly regret it. Your eyes feel as if they're full of burning sand, and when you groan your throat feels like baked clay. 

A cool glass is pressed against your lips, and you swallow a mouthful of water gratefully before you realize you are unfamiliar with the large hands supporting you. They are not soft and furry like Hank's, and they are too large and warm to be Piotr's. Not that he would be the one to support you, but you can't think of anyone else with massive hands. 

You roll your eyes around in your head a couple of times and open them again- with much less pain- and lock eyes with En Sabah Nur. 

"Didn't know Apocalypse was in the bedside care business," slips from your lips before you toss the words around inside of your head. You don't even manage the gall to freeze or apologize. He simply sets you down once again, on something you think might be a bed, and places the cup back onto a tray.

He doesn't react to your words, at least visibly, but you don't have the energy or clarity to be worried about it. Instead, you stare mindlessly at him, until he turns to face you again. 

"You have been unconscious for a week," he states. His voice is somehow _more_ powerful than it had been in the desert.

_Oh._ You've been out for longer, but usually in the days when your powers were newer and you teleported farther. "Why haven't you killed me yet?" You know the answer.

"You are useful to me." 

"Yeah. I know about my 'destiny' or whatever." 

A muscle in his jaw jumps, and you wonder if it's an involuntary tic or a physical sign of emotion. Maybe he just needs to remember to unclench his jaw sometimes.

"I offer you a Death Seed and a place by my side as a Horseman. It would do you well to accept." He doesn't mince words, and your brain fog gives way to a buzzing under your skin.

"Is there a timeframe in that I have to accept?" 

He doesn't respond. 

You chew on the inside of your mouth in thought. "Which Horseman?" You don't know what's gotten into you, or maybe you do. You know a week ago you wouldn't have accepted. You'd have tried to fight him, or teleport away, or manipulate him. You also know you won't be Pestilence. Probably. You don't suit Pestilence. 

An almost-smirk slithers upon Apocalypse's black lips. "War." 

War. You can do War. You've been a mediator, a hero, a villain, and an attacker. You've been all these things on your own, never causing enough ripples or discord to be noticed, or to do damage. You _hated_ chaos. You were always trapped in it, following it where it went because that's what everyone else did. You were born from chaos and drowned in it since birth. You've died more times than you can count and you have a sinking feeling that sowing chaos in your wake will lead to a death that cannot be undone. You love it. You love it as you've never loved it before, and you are still aflame.

"Count me in, then." 

Just for a moment, you forget about the two paths and the fiery mess that is your consciousness revels in the said moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter, insta and tiktok: @sombralunaart  
tumblr: sombraluna


	12. cajun summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening air is hot, humid, and stifling. Of course, it is. It's what his father used to call "Cajun Air." It's like soup, blanketing Malachi until he can barely suck in a breath. His hair is tied up off of his forehead, and he aches to shave his head, shave his hair down past his scalp, if at all possible. He knows it won't make him feel better, but still, the urge clings to him.

The evening air is hot, humid, and stifling. Of course, it is. It's what his father used to call "Cajun Air." It's like soup, blanketing Malachi until he can barely suck in a breath. His hair is tied up off of his forehead, and he aches to shave his head, shave his hair down past his scalp, if at all possible. He knows it won't make him feel better, but still, the urge clings to him.

He's opened the window, but Lousiana seems unwilling to let a poor Canadian soul have even a taste of cool air. He peels off his shirt, wrestling it off of his horns and hurling it away from him. He groans as he realizes taking off his shirt did nothing since the swampy atmosphere refuses to allow his skin to breathe. 

He can practically hear LeBeau now, mocking him for making fun of his damn trenchcoat. Serves him right, though, for wearing it in a New York summer. Serves him right for wearing it in a Lousiana summer. _No one in their right mind would do that_. 

He's shaken from his thoughts by an abrupt wave of dizziness, so he decides that maybe hydration would be a good idea. He just has to find out if his motel room has ice, that is. 

Thankfully, it does. He -very unceremoniously- pours some into a water bottle and fills it with water, while the rest he holds to the nape of his neck. He sighs in relief as the cold water trickles down his spine, his flushed purple skin returning to its bluish hue. 

His phone screen lights up, and he decides that the text from Erin is unimportant. What _is_ important is the fact that he's beginning to feel tired and restless at the same time, a trait that most commonly appears whenever something bad is about to happen. He closes his eyes and listens to the vibrations around him, taking in the sounds of the resident next door's loud TV. Below him, a couple is arguing, but something about their tones says that no one's in any danger, so he turns his attention elsewhere. To the right of his room, on the fire escape, a young woman is lounging in a negligee and smoking a cigarette. He regrets opening his window because the acrid scent is starting to seep through, but there's something so odd about her presence that makes him feel as if she may be the threat, and so he keeps his window open. 

She's been smoking for the entire time he's had ice clasped to his neck, so he chugs his water and sidles back over to the window and pokes his head -horns and all- out. 

He hadn't gotten a clear view of her before, but now as he observes her, he starts to wonder if it's common for Louisiana women to fulfil a trait in a story that Gambit would tell. Her legs are long and graceful, draped over the warped railing. She parts her lips and breathes out smoke in an "o" shape, and Malachi withholds a grimace as the odour washes over him again. 

Her hazel eyes flick over and latch onto his silhouette, and she arches a perfect eyebrow. "It ain't Mardi Gras, _cher_, so what you doin' over there in that silly costume for?" 

He wants to roll his eyes, he truly does, but he remembers that he's supposed to be playing the part of the dashing heterosexual outcast, so he pulls his entire upper body out onto the fire escape and locks eyes with the strange Creole woman. 

"It ain't a costume, _cher_," he echoes back to her. He lets the Cajun drawl and accent he learned so long ago slip into his voice. "I look like this all of the time."

Her lips quirk up into something akin to a smile, and she taps the soot off of her cigarette. "Well, I'll be damned. The Devil... he 'come to take my Catholic soul to the Underworld." 

He pulls himself fully onto the fire escape, ignoring the way the bars feel against his spine. "If I was the Devil, I wouldn't be hangin' around here, that's for sure." He flicks his faux man bun that rests on the top of his head. "The Devil also doesn't sweat like a pig in Louisiana." 

She stubs out the butt of her cigarette after taking one last long draw from it, and leans forward, blowing the smoke directly into his face. "I heard o' the man with demon eyes 'round here, but never the whole damn demon." 

He manages a crooked -and charming, according to some- smile that shows off his sharp teeth. "Got a name?" 

"Oh, sure." The waning twilight turns her deep brown skin a luminescent gold. If she were Malachi's type, he'd have more of an appreciation past one purely of aesthetic.

"Gonna tell me? Or do I have to sit out here all night?" 

A less strained smile flashes over her lips. "Ambrosia." 

His imagination flashes with concepts of a golden liquid, not unlike honey, being drunk by the Greek gods. She fits the visual, clothed in white lace that hangs off of her curvy frame, her long box braids entwined with gold fabric and draped over one shoulder. She's ethereal, and Malachi isn't sure if he wants to paint her or become her, though the very thought reminds him of how uncomfortable being a woman was the first time around. 

"It's a beautiful name. Suits you," he adds. 

"Merci beaucoup," she drawls. "Picked it myself. Now, do I get a name from you?"

He's hit with the realization he can't give her his real name. He racks his brain for the persona he had checked into the motel with. "Lucien." Before he'd adopted the name Malachi, Lucien had been one of his choices. He still misses it, but Lucien Matthew Cera just doesn't have the same ring to it.

She gives him a nod of approval and glances pointedly at the twin scars on his chest. "I'm guessin' you picked that name out yourself, too, non?"

"You guess right." 

She smiles, openly this time, and he notices her teeth are slightly crooked, and there's a gap between the front two. _It__'s cute_, he thinks. _It humanizes her._

"You know I don't mean to be prejudiced, but you are a mutant, right?"

He shrugs. "So what if I am?" 

Ambrosia drops her smile. "Jus' curious. If you ain't the devil and you ain't the Lord, then what are you?" 

He knows all too well that this semi-rhetorical question could very well be a trap. Ambrosia could be an agent ready to kill him -not that it'd work- or a spy sent to bring him in to be manipulated. 

He decides to take a note from LeBeau. "_Merde, cher,_ if I'd have known all the _femmes_ were into philosophy, I would've read up on Diogenes." It's a total cop-out, and anyone who knows him would know, but they aren't here, and he's undercover anyways. "I'd like to consider myself a man, s'il Vous plait." 

She reaches back into her window and pulls out some drink that he can't read the label of because his contacts aren't in. She raises it imperceptibly. "To the philosophy of gender." 

He grabs his water bottle and raises it. "To the philosophy of gender." 

They drink together, and dusk falls. Ambrosia stands, stumbling slightly, and stretches. _She'd be an easy target_, he thinks, before mentally recoiling because _that's really fucking creepy._

"You know, you're really familiar," she says, and his blood runs cold.

He forces a chuckle. "Some people tell me I look like NIghtcrawler. We _are_ both blue, so..." 

"_Non,_ you don't look like him. Someone else," she mumbles, before stepping into her window. "_Bonne nuit_, Lucien." 

He sits on the fire escape for a few minutes, his tail curling around the rails, before slithering back inside his own motel room and slumping onto the bed. For some reason, the bed feels so much more _comfortable_ than it did an hour or two ago. His eyes begin to drift shut, and he dozes, with an unusual lack of dreams. 

He wakes at dawn to sweat-soaked sheets and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, though he closed his window the night before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a job now which means I cant update all of my stuff as often as I used to :(


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